Storm Sail - A Connie Barrera Thriller: The 4th Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Connie Barrera Thrillers)

by Charles Dougherty

  "I sure did. When my alarm went off, I couldn't even remember where I was." Paul took a sip of his coffee and looked around at the endless indigo sea. The smooth, two-meter swells were lifting and lowering Diamantista II at regular, 12-second intervals. "Hard to believe what this looked like 24 hours ago."

  Connie's gaze swept the lighter blue of the sky, clear except for the trade wind cumulus clouds. "It is. As my best friend says, this is what we paid the money for. Life doesn't get much better."

  "You got that right. Any more sign of our new arrivals?" Paul asked.

  "I guess Gina's sacked out, but Dalton put in an appearance about a half hour after you went to sleep."

  "Yeah? What's he like?"

  Connie shrugged. "A little more forthcoming than Gina, but they're a matched set, I guess."

  "How so?" Paul asked, taking another swallow of coffee.

  "He's more self-assured, but he's got that same kind of hayseed accent she has. Wonder where they're from?"

  "He didn't say?"

  "Well, the subject didn't come up. He's deferential like she is, but he comes across as a lot more sure of himself. She gave the impression of a rabbit, frozen in the headlights, like she was sure that if she didn't move, you couldn't see her."

  "You didn't mention that when you were telling me about her earlier."

  "No, it didn't hit me until I met him. Contrast, I guess. Anyhow, he said they were on a boat called Cajun Burn."

  "Cajun Burn?" Paul chuckled.

  "You know the boat?" Connie asked, the pitch of her voice rising in surprise.

  Paul laughed and shook his head. "No, but I know Cajun Burn. It's an outrageously hot pepper sauce. Strange name for a boat, but why not? Did you ask, or did he volunteer that?"

  "I asked if they were on Blue Wing, and he said, 'No ma'am, we was on Cajun Burn.' But I got a strange vibe; there was a flash of something in his eyes right before he answered, like he knew something about Blue Wing."

  "Mm. Did you ask him?"

  "Yes. He said he didn't know anything about it, but he did ask why I wanted to know."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "About listening to them on the weather net. He had an odd question about that, too."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yes. He wanted to know if I thought Herb would report them to the Coast Guard."

  "You mean because they missed their check-ins?"

  "Right."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "That I didn't know."

  "Anything else?"

  "I asked him what kind of boat Cajun Burn was, and his answers were way off, you know?"

  Paul shook his head. "Way off like how?"

  "Inane, almost. Like he didn't know one boat from another."

  "For example?"

  "Well, he told me it was a white sailboat, and I asked how she was rigged. He said, 'Pretty good, I reckon. She did all right until we turned over. Then the masts broke off and she started sinking,' or something close to that. He was vague about the details of the boat, in general."

  "Was it theirs?" Paul asked.

  Connie took a sip of coffee and pursed her lips for a moment, staring down into her mug. She looked up and said, "You know, I just assumed it was. He didn't say, and I didn't ask. Why?"

  "Well, if they were crew, it wouldn't be quite so strange for him to be vague on the particulars. I mean, some people get stuck with inexperienced crew when they're desperate."

  "Was that a jibe at me?" Connie's dark eyes flashed as she remembered her experience with pick-up crew on her first voyage to the islands.

  "Not at all; I wasn't even thinking about that. It's just one of those things that happens. More often than you'd think."

  She studied him for a few seconds, and decided that he had not been teasing her about her lapse in judgment. "Sorry. I didn't mean to be thin-skinned. It just still rankles."

  "Forget it. Could have happened to anybody. You handled it well, and it's ancient history, skipper."

  "Thanks, Cookie."

  "Speaking of being the cook, I'd better go get dinner going. Learn anything else interesting?"

  "Not really. They left from Annapolis, probably around the same time as Blue Wing did. They were headed for the USVI. He said they'd been planning to ask if they could just hitch a ride to the islands with us, before he knew there wasn't any other option."

  "You told him about the electronics, then?"

  "He was asking if we had called the Coast Guard, or if we planned to. Curious about what we were going to do with them."

  "Okay. Sounds like they're okay with being stuck with us for the duration, then. You tell 'em about our dinner schedule?"

  "Yes. I'm sure they're starved; he couldn't remember exactly how long they'd been adrift. I told him we'd wake them up when it was ready."

  "I'll fix a big pot of gumbo. Need to use the shrimp anyway."

  "Yum. Lucky us," Connie said, as Paul took the empty mugs and backed down the companionway ladder.

  Gina lay in her berth, suspended between sleep and wakefulness. The circle of sunlight from the porthole swung back and forth across the bulkhead opposite her as the boat rolled. In the benign seas, the regular motion was calming, almost hypnotic. She heard Dalton groan, and then felt the movement as he stretched his arms, pushing against the underside of her berth.

  "Dalton?"

  "Yeah."

  "You awake?"

  "What do you think, dumbshit? I'm talking in my sleep?"

  "How long have you been awake?"

  "Shit. I don't know. I heard that fairy-assed cop cookin' dinner out there."

  "Fairy-assed? How come you call him fairy-assed?"

  "Let's that spic broad boss him around. He's a fuckin' faggot. Pussy-whipped bastard."

  "You hungry?" Gina asked. "I'm starvin'. You must be, too. Should we go out there and see what he's cookin'?"

  "Not just yet. We got to get our shit straight."

  "What d'ya mean, Dalton?"

  "I was thinkin', after you went to sleep. She asked me was we on Blue Wing."

  "What'd you say?"

  "Told her no. Figgered it woulda caused trouble if I said yes. She knowed Blue Wing was out there, so she mighta knowed them people, or somethin'."

  "That's smart thinkin'. She ask what boat we was on, then?"

  "Fuck, yeah."

  "What'd ya tell her?"

  "Cajun Burn."

  "Cajun Burn?" Gina laughed, then stifled it. She didn't want to make him angry; she didn't think fresh bruises were a good idea. "Why Cajun Burn?"

  "First thing that come to mind, after she said Blue Wing. Can't rightly say why, but that's what I done told her, so we gotta stick with it."

  "Yeah, you're right. You know why it come to your mind, though?"

  "No idea."

  "I betcha it's 'cause it was that hot sauce Harry and Marilyn put in all the food. Cajun Burn, that's what it was called."

  "No shit?"

  "No. No shit. You think they might know Harry and Marilyn?"

  "Who?"

  He wasn't following their conversation well. That was a bad sign. Would he be able to keep his shit together long enough to eat without saying something to give them away? "Harry and Marilyn," she said. "You think Connie and Paul might have knowed them?"

  "They knew Harry and Marilyn?" he asked, his tone conveying his confusion.

  "Well, you said you were worried that they might, and that's why you told them we was on a boat named Cajun Burn."

  "Right," he said. "Why do you think they knew Harry and Marilyn?"

  "They prob'ly didn't," she said, thinking that if they did know Harry and Marilyn, they might know about the hot sauce and wonder about the boat name, Cajun Burn. She couldn't think of a simple enough way to explain her worry to Dalton. She'd just have to deal with that if she sensed that Connie and Paul made the connection. "She ask you any more questions about the boat?"

  "Why?"

  "Because if you told her about
it, we need to be sure we stick to the same story."

  "Like what?"

  He's losing his grip, she thought. "How big? What color was it? What kind was it? Where'd we leave from? When? Like that kinda stuff."

  "Yeah. She asked me all that shit. How'd you know? Was you listenin'?"

  "No, I just was thinkin' that's the kinda thing a body would ask. What did you tell her 'bout this here Cajun Burn?"

  "Okay, now you listen careful," he said. "You gotta remember this shit this time. I done told you once, and I reckon you forgot while you was asleep. If you screw up, we'll be fucked good."

  Relieved that he'd picked up some focus, she played along. "Sorry. I 'member you tellin' me, but go over it again, just to make sure I got it, okay?"

  "That's better," he said. "Cajun Burn was 'bout 30 feet long, white with white sails and a diesel engine. Fiberglass. Turned over in the storm and the masts broke off. We had done left from Annapolis and was a goin' to the Virgin Islands. You got all that?"

  "Yeah," she said. "Just like Blue Wing, 'cept for bein' 30 feet long and white, right?"

  "Right. I figgered if it was just the two of us, we'd a-had a smaller boat, don't ya reckon?"

  "Yeah. Makes sense to me. Smart to make it mostly the same." She was thankful for his sudden lucidity. She shook her head and hoped that he'd stay straight. Of course, she'd already laid the groundwork with Connie. If he went loopy, she'd blame it on his mental condition and the drug — medication, she reminded herself — withdrawal.

  "That's the first rule of bein' a good liar," he said, chuckling. "Always stick to the truth, except where it don't suit your needs."

  "Mighty fine gumbo," Dalton said, spooning more of the steaming food into his bowl. "Nice tang to it."

  Connie traded glances with Paul. "That's from Paul's secret ingredient."

  "Reckon it must be. Ain't never had better, even down to the Big Easy."

  "Glad you're enjoying it, Dalton," Paul said. "I was worried that I might have made it too spicy."

  "That ain't likely to happen. I like hot stuff."

  "I guessed that you might," Paul said.

  "How come?" Dalton asked.

  "Name of your boat."

  "Huh?" Dalton asked.

  Connie saw a flash of worry on Gina's face as Dalton looked up from his food.

  "Cajun Burn?" Gina asked, staring at Dalton. Seeing the blank look on his face, she said, "Boat was named that when we bought it."

  "Oh," Connie said. "When I told Paul that was your boat's name, we both thought you must have named her after the sauce."

  "Sauce?" Dalton asked, frowning.

  "I told you people was gonna think that. That pepper sauce, Dalton. Remember?"

  "Yeah, sure," he said, and began shoveling the food into his mouth. He was hunched over the bowl, his left arm wrapped around it, his weight resting on the cockpit table.

  After several seconds, Gina broke the silence. "Dalton told me y'all was gettin' married down in the islands, at Martin ... something?"

  "Martinique," Connie said, smiling. "It's where we met."

  "Y'all knowed one another long?" Gina asked.

  "A little over two years," Connie said.

  "Oh. I figgered y'all had knowed one another forever, like me and Dalton."

  Connie caught a flicker of movement from Dalton and noticed that he was glaring at Gina. The girl's eyes went wide under his burning stare.

  "I mean, like we — "

  "How'd y'all meet, ennyhow?" Dalton asked, interrupting Gina.

  "I chartered a boat to learn to sail and got to be friends with the two women who ran it. We were hanging out in St. Anne, Martinique, and Paul was down there on business. He knew one of the women."

  "So you musta spent some time in the islands before you met Connie," Dalton said, grinning now. "I mean, to get friendly with them gals on the charter boat."

  "Not really," Paul said. "One of them's the goddaughter of a friend of mine from Miami."

  "Now there's a fun place," Dalton said. "Miami. You from there?"

  "I was. Lived there for over 20 years."

  "How 'bout you, Connie? Where you from?"

  "Different places," Connie said. "I moved around a lot."

  "Uh-huh," Dalton said, "me, too. Where you from originally?"

  "Southern California."

  "I ain't ever been there," Dalton said. "It nice?"

  "It's okay. I like the islands better. Have you been down-island before?"

  "Uh-uh. First time."

  "What made you and Gina decide to take off for the Caribbean?" Paul asked.

  "Um," Dalton said, "We just kinda ... uh ... "

  "We was livin' in Maryland," Gina said, watching Dalton's face, "and I was workin' in Annapolis, waitin' tables at some of them places on the waterfront. I heared them folks talkin' 'bout sailin' to the islands, and I wanted to do it, too, ain't that right, Dalton?"

  "Um-hmm," he mumbled, his mouth full of gumbo.

  Connie saw his eyes wandering, taking in his surroundings like he'd just noticed where he was.

  "So I finally talked him into us gettin' a little boat and givin' it a try."

  "Either of you had any sailing experience?" Paul asked.

  Connie watched Dalton. He was frozen, his spoon part-way between his mouth and the bowl, an intent look on his face. His eyes were focused in the middle distance, his gaze moving from place to place as though he watched some activity that only he could see. She thought that she heard him whimper; she wasn't sure if he had made a sound, but his body language was clear enough. She'd seen people experiencing visual hallucinations before; he wasn't at the cockpit table with them any longer. He was worried about whatever he thought he saw.

  "Nope. Neither one of us," Gina answered Paul's question.

  She looked over at Dalton, and Connie saw her brow furrow. She realizes that he's absent, too, Connie thought.

  "Reckon that was crazy. We didn't have no idea what to do when we got caught in that storm. We didn't have no business out here in the ocean, coupla hillbillies like us."

  "Where'd you come from, Gina?" Connie asked. "I lived in the south for a while, but your accent's not familiar."

  "We growed up in West Virginia, 'round Mingo County. Both us."

  "You known Dalton long?" Paul asked.

  "Uh-huh. Long time," she said, half-rising. "I don't mean to be rude or nothin', but I think I better get Dalton back to bed. He ain't doin' so good."

  "You need a hand with him?" Connie asked.

  "Let's see," Gina said, stepping around the cockpit table and standing next to him, hooking her right hand under his right armpit and taking his left forearm in her left hand. "Come on, sugar. Can you stand up and let's get you back to bed?"

  He looked up at her, startled. At first, his face was a mask of naked fear, but it relaxed as he recognized her. "Gina?"

  "Yeah, babe. I'm here. I gotcha. Come on; come with me." She tugged gently and he rose, shuffling around the table, letting her guide him to the companionway. She turned him around and talked him through backing down the ladder, one step at a time.

  Connie and Paul heard the sound of the door to the crew’s cabin open and close after a few seconds.

  "Looks like she's had some experience with that, anyway," Paul whispered.

  "Yes. Poor girl," Connie said.

  "Guess I'd better get the galley squared away," Paul said. "Nearly time for you to go off watch." He gathered up their dishes and stacked them on the bridge deck where he could reach them through the companionway.

  10

  Paul sat behind the helm, watching as the sun dropped in the sky. They weren't in the tropics yet. Closer to the equator, darkness fell almost the instant the sun went down, but up here, the show lasted longer. With the clear horizon to the west, he was hoping there might be a green flash. He reached over and picked up the thermos he'd filled with coffee after he'd finished cleaning up from their meal.

  The water pressure pump
had not run for several minutes; Connie must have finished her shower. He poured himself a cup of the coffee and leaned back, shifting his position so that he could stretch both legs out on the starboard cockpit seat. He had just taken his iPhone out of his pocket and opened the Kindle app to find himself a book when Connie poked her head up.

  "Hey, sailor," she said. "Want some company?"

  "Sure, but shouldn't you get some sleep?"

  "Oh, don't worry. I will, but I need to dry my hair first. What are you reading?"

  "Nothing, yet. Feel better now?"

  "You bet. Water's still hot from when you ran the engine the other day. First time in days that my scalp isn't crusted with salt." She sat down on the port side of the cockpit and unwrapped the towel that covered her thick, glossy black hair. She dropped the towel on the seat beside her and ran her fingers through her hair, leaning back against the cockpit coaming, letting the wind blow her dark mane out behind her.

  Paul watched, transfixed, a grin on his face. "I'm a lucky fellow," he said.

  She cut her eyes over, giving him a look that was decidedly feline as she continued to fluff her hair in the warm breeze. Watching him watching her, she winked and licked her lips, blowing him a kiss.

  "You are," she said. "Too bad we've got company."

  "Oh, well," Paul said, "most guys would give up a year or two of life just for the view I've got right now."

  "You do have a way with words, Mr. Russo. Want to get married?"

  "I'm already committed. Sorry."

  "Hope she deserves you."

  "No question about that; she deserves better, but don't tell her."

  He took a sip of coffee and offered her the cup. She shook her head. "I'd better not; I'm feeling drowsy. Wouldn't want to get myself wired just before I go to bed."

  "Speaking of wired," Paul said, taking another sip of coffee, "what did you think of Dalton this afternoon?"

  "He was somewhere else. It was strange; one minute he was right there with us, and the next he didn't seem to be following the conversation," Connie said. "And then I caught him staring into space with his eyes jerking around like he saw someone approaching."

  "Someone, or something," Paul added. "I noticed that, too. He looked scared. Probably hallucinating."